


he's cheer captain, they're on the bleachers

by sungchanery



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Cheerleaders, Established Relationship, Flexibility, M/M, Mark's trans, Sex Under the Bleachers, Trans Male Character, Unprotected Sex, Vaginal Fingering, Wall Sex, counts as gym sex i guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-11
Updated: 2020-12-11
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:21:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28009152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sungchanery/pseuds/sungchanery
Summary: Nothing screams victory more than Yuta’s little prizes after a winning game.
Relationships: Mark Lee/Nakamoto Yuta
Comments: 21
Kudos: 210





	he's cheer captain, they're on the bleachers

**Author's Note:**

> this author's note will be paying tribute to the horny demon that took the wheel while i was in class and prompted me to write cheerleader filth instead of learning about geophysics . so yeah, thanks horny spawn of satan, i owe u one.
> 
> special thanks to [lua](https://twitter.com/pinkhrj) and [rose](https://twitter.com/divinerenjun) for reading over this and being the best people in the whole wide world . i love u both we're kissing on the cheek as we speak .
> 
> [mean girls mom voice] do u need anything? snacks? a condom?  
>  **just for heads up:** they have sex without a condom here as u see in the tags, but that's heavily irresponsible !! please practice safe sex !! 
> 
> enjoy!

"Yuta!" 

Mark's eyes filter through the large crowd, focusing on one single person before he starts running, quick, strong legs taking him to the man whose arms he wants around him the most right now.

"Hey, Mark." 

Yuta's voice is sweet, deep and muffled as he speaks buried in Mark's nape. Mark melts in his embrace, taking in his overpowering but so, so comforting scent. He smells like that Axe body spray he keeps buying even when Johnny insists that he is not a horny teen needing to make a lasting but horrible first impression anymore, and Mark, very much unbothered and even more in love, likes how Yuta's neck tastes, praline sweet and a bit bitter when he leaves an open mouthed kiss on his jugular. 

_"Oppa,_ where were you? I didn't see you in the crowd," Mark backs away just to pout up at his boyfriend. The entire basketball game passed without a single moment of Yuta in the crowd on sight. Mark was busy, for sure — cheering takes up all his energy and landing on flimsy wrists and toned knees needs his undivided concentration — but that doesn't mean that his eyes didn't rushedly scan the crowd for the icy purple of Yuta's wavy hair or the vibrant neon yellow of his sweater. 

Yuta grins, half apologetically and half in delight. Mark knows how much Yuta loves the attention, how much he adores basking in the glorious knowledge that Mark seeks him out, misses him even for a moment, that he occupies his thoughts even when he is away. 

"I was right there," he points with a nudge of his chin and Mark follows the gesture, reaching the hidden point of the bleachers, beneath the seats and right next to the wooden staircase — a place where not many people frequent but those who do have different intentions other than simply watching the weekly, friendly basketball game. “Had the best view of the match.”

The view from underneath the bleachers is a little less than absolute _shit—_ even more so when the indoor gym is packed and the gaps in between the rows of seats get blocked by bags, legs and discarded snacks, leaving almost no leeway for anyone to see what’s actually happening during the game. And Yuta, Mark is well aware, doesn’t give a flying damn about the Flaming Lions or their precious streak of wins; but he gives every single damn he owns about Mark, and the view of Mark’s cheering team from beneath, eye level equal with the flare of every cheerleader’s skirt, is spectacular. 

“Dude you _know_ that’s not true,” Mark argues but not with much fight in him other than a furrow of the eyebrows, forehead coming to rest on Yuta’s, their hair tickly against their skin. “Just, like—tell me that you came here for me and _go.”_

Yuta’s grin deepens when he gets caught and he rewards Mark’s shrewdness with his palms running up his bare thighs, fingers sneaking underneath his box-pleated skirt to rest on the swell of his ass, clad in stretchy sewn-in shorts and hugging it tightly. He gives it a squeeze and Mark almost jumps in his hold, like a small, taut spring letting loose, releasing tension. He giggles, and Yuta, liking the sound, coaxes one more round of it out of him by sliding his fingers underneath the sides of the tight shorts up until his first knuckle, giving the bare, plump skin of Mark’s ass another, firmer squish. 

Mark always lights up like a christmas tree — his reactions come to him like a string of fairy lights, bulb after bulb after bulb sparking until the apples of his cheeks, his nose, and the tips of his ears get dipped in gleaming, scarlet embarrassment. 

_“Dude,_ cut it _off,_ we’re still— _Yuta!”_ Mark screeches in the minimal space between their faces as Yuta repeats the action one last time, just to cheekily test the limits he knows Mark has, to push him up till the point that Yuta knows Mark gets the most excited. It works — it always does, and Mark, instead of stepping back and putting space between them, just clings on Yuta’s body more, arms wrapping narrower around his neck. “Be patient, _please.”_

“You like it, though, don’t you?”

Mark’s eyebrows rise up underneath his raven bangs with the accusation — not because it is baseless, but because it is embarrassingly true. 

“Hey, you know it,” he mumbles, the one being caught this time, and Yuta breathes out a deep giggle before he slots their lips together in a sloppy kiss, his hands dragging the fabric of Mark’s skirt up on his way to Mark’s waist, leaving him exposed for a single, heart-racing second before the skirt flaps back in place. Yuta tastes like Mountain Dew and overly buttery popcorn and sucking on his tongue makes Mark feel like home. 

* * *

_“Fuck_ —Yuta—slow _down,”_ Mark’s low, filthy voice echoes in the hidden space that Yuta has really claimed as his favorite, right underneath the fourth row of seats on the left side of the gym, where gum is stuck on the rusty hardwood and red post-victory confetti surrounds the space under their feet. Two of Yuta’s fingers are surrounded by Mark’s wet heat, eliciting lewd squelching every time he pumps them from the tips of his painted-black nails till they’re knuckle-deep inside him, the drag of his fingertips on Mark’s walls making him moan in a pitch higher than he should be letting out in the openness of the space. His mewls echo around them — and that makes Mark clench tight around Yuta and him to smirk, proud. 

Yuta never bothers waiting to go home and Mark almost never wants him to. They stay around, greeting friends, talking mindlessly, even stealing a couple of half-eaten snacks from them until the time the people clear the gym comes, nobody needing to stay back after the campus champions leave the premises and the cheerleaders follow suit. With the exception of Mark, of course; whose way of honoring the team is a tad different, but fervent all the same.

Nothing screams victory more than Yuta’s little prizes after a winning game — his lingering, confident touches, his unashamed words whispered against Mark’s ear, sending shivers of anticipation coursing through his adrenaline packed body; the thrill every pyramid, every stunt brought inside him in court pairing with the rush of unbridled want that blooms behind the trace of Yuta’s fingers on his skin. 

“You really do like this,” Yuta purrs against his ear, teeth closing down on Mark’s pierced lobe, the silver of his earring caught behind them and filling Yuta’s mouth with a faint, metallic bitterness. “Do you feel like a winner, baby?” 

Yuta licks against the shell of his ear and it tickles, making Mark jerk between the wall and Yuta’s chest, and he chokes up on a giggle as the movement pushes Yuta’s fingers deeper inside him. He has one of his legs hooked around Yuta’s forearm, his splayed palm against the wall supporting them both and sending Mark yanking on the cold surface of it with every harsh thrust of his digits between his folds. He balances precariously on one leg, the circle of his skirt bunched up under his chest and his shorts pushed to the side, thin fabric drenched in a way that Mark has gotten used to feeling between his legs whenever Yuta decides to toy with him. 

So yeah — Mark, even though he wasn’t playing in court himself, feels like the fucking MVP.

“Not until you give it to me,” he manages between moans, familiar with every little thing that gets Yuta going, kicking the last bit of his patience off a cliff and making space for the edginess he keeps inside, the desire to drive Mark to his own edge, to make him fall as well. Mark sneaks a wet peck on Yuta’s lips — atypically tender in the heated moment but just perfect to fuel Yuta like gasoline. 

He reaches up with slick covered fingers and slips them right between Mark’s lips, the taste of his own wetness sweet and a bit sour on his tongue and his eyes glued on Yuta’s as the heel of his palm fits around Yuta’s denim-clad bulge, rubbing him above his pants and offering Yuta the friction his cock needs to harden to full-mast. He slowly fills his jeans out — Mark’s heart doing somersaults behind his chest with the singular, nasty thought of Yuta’s thick length under his fingers, stretching his lips, bottoming out deep inside him. He leaks more, making an even bigger mess of his skirt as Yuta licks inside his mouth in an open-mouthed kiss, all teeth and tongue and Mark flavored spit almost dribbling down Yuta’s chin. 

“Want me to fuck you here or out there?” Yuta’s voice is hoarse after minutes of being unused and it’s dripping with hot lust, relayed to Mark with a tight suck around his tongue, travelling down his chest and finding abode at the base of his spine, where he’s being set ablaze with spark-like tingles being sent all over. He likes the sound of them both — on one side, his body riding up against the wall as Yuta fucks up into him; on the other, his legs spread on the hardwood of the bleachers' bench, ankles almost touching his ears as Yuta’s cock reaches unbelievably deep with every snap. 

Mark’s decisive enough — but when it comes to Yuta, his greediness overthrows it all. 

“Are you warmed up enough?” Yuta covers for him after Mark’s long-drawn silence with a pointless question. He saw Mark himself, flying in the air, legs spreading in full-splits, firm arms holding him up while he kept tumbling and tumbling just to make the crowd shake. He is all warmed up and Yuta is quite kept up on that — but the glitter shining in Mark’s eyes with the implication of what Yuta wants them to do is the sole reason Yuta asks in the first place. 

“Well, warmed up enough to do _this,_ I guess.” 

Mark’s leg meets the side of Yuta’s face in a perfect split, the material of his knee-high sock soft against his temple and Yuta doesn’t even bat an eye, smirk reflecting Mark’s cocky own in mutual understanding. They have done this before — Yuta never the one to pass up his boyfriend’s hard-earned flexibility, Mark coming on Yuta’s cock twisted and bent in every way Yuta’s equally twisted mind conjures. 

It’s one of those times and the way they move around each other is practiced and comfortable, the want intensifying with every second they spend on getting ready. Yuta pulls himself out of his jeans, precome rolling from the head down his length and he spreads it on his cock with a quick tug, his mouth peppering kisses on the side of Mark’s neck with Mark’s fingers tightly clawing on his long, lavender tufts. 

“We haven’t really done it like this before,” Mark breathes out when he feels the raw tip of Yuta’s cock sliding between his folds, rubbing on his clit, feeling him up and drawing out what he can feel Mark needs right _there,_ right _now,_ without his frustrating stalling. It makes Mark pull at his hair harder, a whine leaving him in the form of a complaint, and Yuta chuckles mischievously before he guides his cock inside Mark with a press of his thumb. 

_“Shit,_ baby, you’re so fucking _wet,”_ Yuta mutters between gritted teeth, his cock slipping inside Mark with an ease that makes him sigh, the bare skin on skin contact of his shaft against Mark’s dripping walls making everything delicious — the arousal palpable enough for Yuta to almost _taste._ He buries himself in Mark to the hilt, his body moving closer to his, Mark’s leg that is perched on his shoulder stretching more with every centimeter of distance Yuta closes, Mark parted in half for Yuta to ruin, to ram inside and break. 

And that’s what he does — Mark’s deep moans turn to wails, to fucking _sobs,_ his entire frame shoved time after time up against the wall, his skirt sent flying with every hard and fast thrust of Yuta’s inside his tightness. The angle is insane and it’s even better when Mark can feel Yuta’s hot, hard cock raw inside him, nothing hindering his throbbing walls from making Yuta swerve, fall out of his lane, from Mark driving him right where he wants to. 

“I—fuck, please don’t mess up my uniform,” Mark blurts out somewhere between consciousness and the lack thereof, that filthy limbo where all he can feel, see, hear is _Yuta_ — Yuta’s cock, Yuta’s face, Yuta’s freaking groans fanning hot puffs of air under his jaw — and Yuta fucking laughs, hearty and fucked out while the snap of his lean hips becomes erratic. 

“Just tell me where you want it, Mark, don't fuck around,” he enunciates with a graze of his teeth across the expanse of Mark’s bared out neck and a bite on the plump skin of his calf, cock twitching inside of him, Mark licking his dry lips wet before he catches Yuta’s mouth in a kiss meant to silence him. He gets to keep it up for a while and Yuta lets him, allowing Mark to savor him the way he wants. Because he’s Mark’s and Mark is his and that means that every piece of Yuta is for Mark to claim and own. 

“Inside me—shit, _please,"_ are Mark’s next to last words and with a final _“oppa”_ murmured right against Yuta’s ear Yuta comes, sunk balls deep inside Mark and filling him up just the way he begged for, delivering in earnest, Mark’s clamping insides milking every drop of his release out of him for it to satiate them both. 

Mark gets his breath kissed out of his body with Yuta’s cock still sheathed inside of him and deft fingers stroking circles on his clit, his orgasm hitting him wave after wave, coming on Yuta’s shaft and mixing his wetness with the come still pooling deep, feeling outright filthy and content. 

“Congratulations, baby,” Yuta smiles against Mark’s lips when both of his legs are on the ground and he can’t help but return it, feeling full and messy with come dripping down the insides of his thighs, their heavy panting still the only sound in the empty, dark gymnasium and Yuta’s sparkling, satisfied eyes his only view. 

There’s a small piece of confetti in Yuta’s hair and Mark chuckles, reaching out to untangle it, the glossy piece of paper flying among hundreds of others a while ago and announcing them victorious. After a second-long thought, Mark blows on it and sends it soaring again above Yuta’s head, both of them following it until it reaches the ground. 

“What was that for?” Yuta wonders with a raise of an eyebrow. 

“You asked me if I feel like a winner,” Mark brings back Yuta’s question from before, the full answer now ready, right behind his still chapped lips. “Well, now, yeah. I think I do.”

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me [here](https://twitter.com/yeekiies) and for 18+ content and lots of screaming, [here](https://twitter.com/sungchanery) !


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